Infinite Mobius
by impactneddus018
Summary: This is an in-depth story of the entire Sonic the Hedgehog universe, spanning the games, (mostly) comics, and cartoons. As such, there is no possible way to concisely summarize what happens in the story. All I will say is...read at your own risk.
1. Chapter 0: Disclaimer

Allow me to introduce myself. I am Phoenix Rose, an aspiring young author that decided to write this immersive journal – or fanfic, if you will – about my universe, or what you Overlanders know as the Sonic the Hedgehog universe. In doing so, and being an idiot that apparently didn't know people from your time knew about us, I have included numerous characters and events from Archie's Sonic comic universe, which, according to the terms of service, is apparently a big no-no. I've made the decision to publish this…this fanfic anyway and see where it goes…if it goes anywhere. Therefore, a few notes:

I do not own any officially-licensed characters. They are the explicit property of SEGA, DiC, Archie (the company, not the series itself), Nintendo, and Mr. Ken Penders (in some small cases). I do not own any settings in this fanfic, either. I will go so far as to say I theoretically don't own myself, or any other original characters, simply because we are based off of the official timeline. Okay, that should cover the legality of things.

Finally, I looked very carefully over the ratings system for the site. I've decided, to be safe, that this fanfic will be rated M for suggestive themes, extreme violence, and coarse language. This fanfic will cover quite a few controversial, real-world issues, even though it takes place in the Sonic universe, simply because they need to be discussed in some form of literature, and I don't see enough of anything covered in current lit.

Enjoy, leave as many constructive comments as you want, and grab on to whatever's closest to you, because you're in for a wild ride. Here, I'll close the hatch before I take you a thousand years into the future…


	2. Chapter 1: To Infinity

Gerald Kintobor's forehead lay firmly atop his resting palms as he sat at his desk, waiting for the fifth and final lecture of his hectic day. Through drowsy, study-drunk eyes, he peeked at the crimson display on his watch: 5:15.05. 5:15.07. 5:15.09. Time ticked slowly by, fascinating the beady brown eyes behind the thick, dark shades of the university student's glasses. Two years ago, Gerald would never have dreamed of owning a timepiece, let alone a solar-powered, two-hundred-year-old onyx-engraved antique he had found in an excavation site. Hell, two years ago, Gerald would never have dreamed of university, or experiencing anything within the United Federation.

Gerald was next in line for the chiefdom of the Kintobor clan, a multiracial tribe just south of the U.F.'s forest border. Although considerably lighter-skinned than anyone else in his tribe, Gerald's slick black hair and wide nose pronounced his mestizo roots proudly. He never shied away from any opportunity to ensure others knew he was just as proud of his ethnic origin as his features showed. However, two years ago, his father was approached by General Alexandr Towers about a position within the U.F., and of course, old Pablo Kintobor jumped at the opportunity for power. Having his son go to university was just one of the many benefits.

However, Gerald couldn't understand why his father, of all people, was chosen for the newly-formed position of "head chieftain". It seemed to be title and title alone, and as chief of one of the most violent clans in Mobius's history, Pablo really hadn't done much but pillage and destroy neighboring territories. Of course, that was the clan's ultimate goal, but Gerald certainly didn't like watching the war parties where the clan lined up along its northern border and hollered in a discomforting yodel; nor did he particularly enjoy the enslavement ceremonies, as dozens of fair, honest people were whipped and whisked into huts hardly large enough to fit six of them comfortably. The Kintobor clan was began out of spite for an ancient hate group and originally fought for justice; now, a thousand years later, all it did was fight for hate. Gerald knew it was wrong; he also knew he could do nothing about it.

Maybe it was just because they were white. Gerald wasn't smarter than anyone else in the tribe, but apparently light skin was the sign of an angel or something. He certainly wasn't as smart as his younger sister, Blanca, but she was only old enough for freshman year of secondary school, and even then, President Rowan decided to hold her back a year for being "a woman of her age", or really, just a woman in general. All of this made Gerald more and more furious at the system of the Federation. At home, he would get teased for being "tabula", or slate-like: too clean for a Kintobor boy. Now, he received countless threats and criticisms of his features being too rustic and dark; even his closest friends called him disgusting names, though he did admit that the teasing name of "Mean Bean Machine" was utterly hilarious, if only for the fact that it made no sense. Then again, this whole scenario really made no sense.

5:19.56. 5:19.58. Gerald watched as his professor, former militant Waluigi Columbo, strolled in right on time, a habit that drove Gerald to the point of anxious insanity. Mr. Columbo seemed to make a point about coming into class exactly on time. No one knew why, and no one was going to ask, because who would dare stand up to a fearsome dictator whose ancestors drove Italy into ruin in the 2050s? Gerald, of all people, knew this wasn't a totally accurate trait to judge one's character, but it seemed to work well for Mr. Columbo, or at least his teaching style. Today's lesson: indigenous people. Today's subject, as Mr. Columbo loved to call on people relevant to the topic, even if they really knew nothing about the topic at all, personally: Gerald Kintobor.

"Class, open your textbooks to page 400, and please have your notes from Monday's lesson on your desk as well," Mr. Columbo sneered. Gerald had been forgetting things for this class, but as an astrophysics and paleontology double major, he knew his grade in "A Brief History of the Modern World" wasn't going to matter much; he still had to take classes on individual centuries dating all the way back to the twentieth century A.D., where the downfall of many major powers started. Gerald placed his orange notebook atop his textbook, and when a blank page met Mr. Columbo's face, the glare from the instructor's deep cobalt eyes pierced right through Gerald's skin. A quick "fail" stamp was placed in bright red letters across the center of the page, making the next assignment almost impossible to pass, beings the thick ink bled through several pages. Gerald smiled lightly in return, but he knew that smile would get him nowhere.

Waluigi Columbo returned to the front of the room shortly thereafter, as Gerald, being a scholarship recipient, made the utterly stupid decision to sit in the front row. The professor stroked his silvered mustache and called role in a jarringly dark tone. As usual, no one was missing, for this professor accepted no absences, and being on his bad side meant an automatic failure. "Now, class," he growled, "far too few of you submitted Monday's notes. Therefore, all of you must take the lecture over again, online, alone, by tonight, or receive an F in the class and be kicked from university." Right, Gerald recalled, this is a "required" course. Mr. Columbo sat in a black office chair that nearly swallowed him and began to drone.

"Our first encounter with the indigenous people surrounding the U.F. did not occur until well into the second millennium, A.D., although they had developed no culture before the arrival of the Europeans." Taken aback by this inaccuracy, Gerald snickered quietly, but dared not correct Mr. Columbo. "The Europeans introduced these people to Christian mythology, fine arts, and food-"

A laugh exploded from the gut of Gerald Kintobor. Wrong move.

Mr. Columbo glared at the boy. "Excuse you, Gerald, I'm trying to teach."

"I'm sorry, sir, and it won't happen again…" Gerald apologized, albeit apathetically.

"As I was saying," Mr. Columbo continued, "European culture humanized the indigenous, and they were treated in fairness and equality until they decided to rise against their masters, or 'biting the hand that fed them', as you will." Gerald's mood shifted away from enjoyment of the stupidity of this lecture, toward anger for its sudden biting tone, especially as it continued. "After this uprising, which occurred around the early 1800s, these tribes were slowly removed from the young United States, until, eventually, they were safely dispatched into the small, guarded areas around our wonderful country…"

Gerald blocked the lecture from his mind. He remembered all-too-well the fat, terrifying guardsmen surrounding the U.F.'s border. The men stood with loaded attack rifles, unbudging, violently staring down any who dared to approach. Behind the front line of militaristic guards was a smooth, steel barrier; behind that, rows upon rows of thick-cut barbed wire supported by electrically-charged poles. As he entered the U.F. through the presidential gates two years ago, Gerald finally saw the back half of the gauntlet keeping him separated from his tribe. Just behind the wires and poles was another, shorter steel wall; just beyond that, a set of alarm-tripping fire lines, followed finally by yet another wall. Apparently, only two people had ever fled that far inward; both had grown weary from the seemingly-impossible climbs, tripped the alarm, and sent the final steel wall flying back at them, crushing them. Rumor spread that their bones still lay in that barrier, for it would be far too risky to retrieve them by shutting off the system.

"Now, class, on page 400, you will find more information on each tribe's barbaric attempt at civilization, including the clan of one of our little friends here," Mr. Columbo announced to the class. "Would you care to fill us in, Gerald?"

Sweat immediately protruded from Gerald's forehead, and a long gulp slid down his shaking throat. However, sudden rage swept through him as the words of Waluigi Columbo finally slipped into his head. "Well, may I read the bit about the Kintobors aloud, and then compare and contrast with how it's actually like there?"

Mr. Columbo grinned at this odd request. "Um, yes, you may."

Gerald's native eyes focused on the paper in front of his face, and the words began to fly from his tongue. "The Kintobor clan began in the early 2100s as an uprising against the former United States of America. They pride themselves as being gluttons that could easily take our beloved country hostage whenever they so chose; their knowledge of roboelectronics and nature make them formidable foes, so they are kept at bay by extra security. Often, they hold parades berating victims of their violent attacks, and some even befriend their neighboring animals en route to capturing other clans. Kintobors often participate in bleeding contests, cannibalism, and…" Gerald seethed, "…murdering their families."

The young Kintobor couldn't take this ridicule anymore. "Mr. Columbo, this is nothing like how I grew up. This is not my tribe. This never has been my tribe, and it's certainly not what I want out of my tribe."

"Ah, but you have said it, thus it is true," the professor sneered.

"Ah, but I have only read it, and thus it isn't necessarily true," the student snapped.

Mr. Columbo stood from his chair. "I'll have you know that that textbook was written by our finest journalists, who traveled to your clan and captured the essence of your poor lives—"

"Our lives aren't poor, and this book was published ten years ago; no journalists have ever come to our clan," Gerald exclaimed in despair.

Only a few feet and two desks originally separated Gerald from Mr. Columbo, and as the instructor strolled closer to his adversary, the distance shrunk considerably. "Well, you poor thing, why don't you tell us how you perceive your own people."

"Gladly," Gerald shouted as he, too, rose from his desk. Though a bit overweight, Gerald was surprisingly limber, and easily climbed over his desk to the front of the room. All eyes were on him as he began to tell the story of his clan.

"First of all, our heritage expands far further back from the 2100s; we've only been a tribe that long, yes, but we used to be full citizens of the United States, and before then, so my family has told me, we had our own cultures throughout what we now call Mayana. Yes, we had culture, unlike what Mr. Columbo and this, this damned book says! Where in Gaia's name do you think the damned zeroes came from?" Mr. Columbo interrupted with a quick throat clearing. In spite, Gerald pressed on: "Second, we never revolted against the States; we were insensibly forced out of the country, attempted to regain citizenship, and met with a militarized, violent reaction. Nearly nine hundred years later, we have yet to regain citizenship, even as we watched other groups and minorities shoved out of that nation, as we watched it fall into a coalition with what we know as the Holoskan governme—"

"That's enough, Gerald!" Mr. Columbo shouted as he angrily charged the boy. "How dare you even elude to any unfair treatment of anyone by our beloved country, let alone any correspondence with that disgusting nation! You do realize only vermin inhabit that place now, because the socialists decided to disband after only a few centuries?"

Gerald snapped. "They aren't vermin! They're Mobians! They have as much right to be on this planet – which is rightfully theirs –"

"Gerald, you're trying my patience," the professor hissed as he snatched the collar of Gerald's white undershirt. "I asked you to tell the class about your life, not fight for your blasphemous 'social justice'! What would the Gaias think?" The class erupted in a chaotic display of sudden hatred for both the boy and his aggressor, half the room disgusted by the uncomfortable display of power Waluigi was showing while the other half cried for Gerald to be put "back in his redneck place!". In the distant, opposite corners of the hall sat two quiet, black-clothed figures; however, they could not be more different. Above the calamity, Mr. Columbo tossed Gerald to the ground like a ragdoll and, with one foot on his student's chest, exclaimed, "Class dismissed – immediately!". A mass exodus of frightened, adrenaline-charged students climbed over each other's shoulders; however, out of the light, the two dark figures remained in their corners, eagerly awaiting the result of the current conflict.

Still stunned from hitting the ground with such force, Gerald was pushed away by his instructor's foot; luckily, his reaction was swift, as he narrowly avoided a crushing kick to the ribs. Rage evaporated, leaving fear behind in his body. "Mr. Columbo, I didn't mean t—"

"Listen, you lowlife," seethed the instructor as he backed his opponent into the wall, "you never disrespect any member of the U.F., nor do you accuse us of portraying lies, because we know the truth." A quick punch to the stomach knocked the breath out of Gerald. "I will have it seen that you are dismissed from university and returned to your brainwashed tribe, for you are a threat to the people of this country!"

"Excuse me, sir?" sounded a voice from the corner of the room. "May you please stop attacking him? He did something wrong, and I think he realizes his mistake. I'm sorry, I just don't want you to be fired from abusing a student; you're really a wonderful teacher, sir." Both parties involved in the fight stood silent, stunned by this unseen, quiet woman apparently standing up for a classmate she had never even met. Gerald was relieved to see Mr. Columbo's head bob in agreement, and he quickly scampered to the exit door to join the girl. They left the room and closed the door behind them.

Ever the gentleman, Gerald was keen on thanking his rescuer: "Thanks. For a moment there, I thought I was in big trouble."

"Oh, you were," the girl replied, "and I think you still would be if he wasn't my uncle."

Well, that's one way to get out of that situation, thought Gerald. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to put you in a bad spot, you know, with me being non-native and all." Damn, did that hurt to say.

"It's okay. I'm used to it; you're just the first one that isn't white. Hell, I think you're the only person that isn't white."

Damn, did that hurt to hear. "Yeah, I've gotten that a bit since moving here."

Curiosity gained control of the girl's mouth. "What brought you in here, anyway? I didn't think people could sneak in through that insane wall."

Gerald frantically ran a mental search for an answer that wouldn't make himself look like an alien from some faraway universe. Of course, this entire situation made no sense. "Well, you see, my father was hired by a general—"

"General Towers!?" exclaimed the girl. "He hired your dad!?"

"Um…yeah, he did," Gerald affirmed. "Long story short, I ended up here from that, but enough about me, who are you?"

A giggle escaped from the lungs of the girl. "Oh, I'm Jenifer. Jenifer Vargas. You probably haven't heard of me, mostly because I don't talk unless I have to; if I did talk, I'd've been thrown out of the U.F. years ago." Both of them laughed at this last comment, but their collective burst of laughter was short-lived as a loud shot echoed in the distance. "Um…I should probably go." Jenifer slipped a piece of thin parchment into Gerald's breast pocket and ran away from the building.

Gerald smiled. He had never even met eyes with any woman in the U.F., let alone carried out a conversation with one. He was taken aback – smitten, even – by the black curls tumbling over Jenifer's lean, freckled face and resting beside her slender neck; he was even more enamored with their ability to bounce with her every captivating move. Was this truly love?, Gerald pondered as a tall, slim shadow towered over Gerald's right shoulder.

"What you did in there…was very brave. Stupid, indeed, but brave." Gerald tensed at this metallic growl. Was this…

"Sir Towers?"

"Yes, indeed, it is. Come with me," General Alxandr Towers whispered while placing a warm circle of metal against Gerald's head.

Gerald had never seen a pistol before, but had seen the damaging effects of rifle shots on people at long distance. He couldn't imagine what a bullet this close to his face would do, though he imagined it would be devastating. He complied.

"I'll spare your life if you comply," the general hissed, "but you must be removed from this country." Towers shoved Gerald into a military tank – Gerald had only ridden in motor vehicles thrice in his life, all during his stay in the U.F., so he was still very nervous; this scenario, this day, was just making everything more nerve-wracking.

The one-way black Plexiglas prevented onlookers from seeing the resident foreigner within the tank. Still, people pointed and laughed at the vehicle, if only to mention these tanks were becoming more and more common in the two short years General Towers had taken control. Speaking of Towers, he still had the gun forcibly pressed against Gerald's left temple. Gerald couldn't understand why, as his current restraints prevented him from so much as moving to unclasp himself. Still, he silently, fearfully, stared out the window of the tank, hoping that Towers's finger wouldn't accidentally pull the trigger it so confidently laid against.

The silence finally broke when General Towers laid the gun aside and parked the tank to the fanfare of a clunky transmission. The two had parked just outside of the unmistakable white gates Gerald had entered just two years ago. Both unbuckled their belts and, under escort by his captor, Gerald was instructed to exit the vehicle. Towers turned to Gerald and bent his knees to meet the boy eye-to-eye. "You know you have to leave the country after what you just did," Towers explained before he turned to punch the forty-three-digit code into the electronic input system. The gates opened, and the general calmly ushered out the non-native who was, truly, more native than any member of the U.F.

Towers's whisper diminished to an almost impossibly audible level as he spoke. "Gerald, you're young. You're naïve. Truly, what you did in there was honorable, but unfortunately country comes before honor in our nation. That's why I'm offering you a job." He unloaded five fresh bullets from his pistol and laid it softly on the ground.  
The worried frown on Gerald's face dissipated into a weak smile for a moment. "Go on, sir, I'm eager to hear it. Thank you for sparing me, by the way."

Towers laughed. "Oh, it was never my intention to kill you, boy. I only wanted to scare you a bit" – he opened his suit coat, unveiling a collection of butcher knives and poison – "before we got here. Now as for that opportunity, well, I can 'reinstate' your citizenship…for a price."

"Sir," Gerald beamed, "if you believe I can do something, I will do it. What's your price?"

"Returning to your clan for twenty years."

Gerald was taken aback by this. Wasn't he supposed to be reinstated?

"I know," Towers continued, "that this isn't the most desirable situation, but who else will lead it? I've seen them firsthand. Might you remember me from the FNP a few years ago?"

Ah, yes, the Five Nights of Peace. The one festival Gerald truly looked forward to. The tribe's calendar was a three-hundred-sixty-day season with a five-day, or some years even a six-day, holiday, beginning on the winter solstice. Families and friends would gather to feast, drink, and be merry after a long year of toil and warfare. Gerald enjoyed lighting the annual Gaia Bon, a fire that burned until the last night. He enjoyed the candles of pine and cinnamon that decorated the huts of every individual. He certainly enjoyed the fact that he and his father spent these days together in peace and harmony, instead of the contrapuntal clashes that so often accompanied their opposing worldviews. Gerald certainly did remember a cloaked figure studying the Bon one season, and, faced with the beanstalk of a man in front of him, he made the connection almost immediately. "I do, actually."

"No one in that clan was more fit to lead than you. I know you can bring peace to your land, because you have seen how we run things up here." Towers reached into the jungle of knives and vials in his jacket and, somehow avoiding a cut, took out a thin, black metal object. A cell phone. Gerald had never owned one, nor had he seen one until university, but he knew how they worked. "This baby has about forty percent battery life left; that should be enough to last you these twenty years. The passcode is 'chocolatesupreme', all one word, spelled like normal. You can make one call and receive one call; choose who you call and when wisely." Towers walked back inside the U.F.'s gates, leaving Gerald and his new phone alone.

Gerald reached into his breast pocket and pecked out the fourteen digits on the paper.


	3. Chapter 2: Good Morning

Sunrise on Little Planet was a sight to behold, to put it lightly. The sleepy black sky slowly grew bluer and bluer as rays of bright yellow snuck through its cloudy veins. That yellow fought with the blue of the night that longed so desperately to maintain its hold over the small satellite of a planet, causing a vibrant display of pinks and melted gold to erupt through Mobius's atmosphere. Maybe the severe lack of air at this altitude caused its viewers to pass out if they couldn't easily get acclimated, but hey, it was a nice sight, even if land-dwellers didn't see it for long. The surrounding clouds made this an even more wonderful light show; yes, the humidity was high and the grey vapor fogged the vision of Little Planet's inhabitants, but that didn't seem to bother anyone, either. Finally, after the clash between sun and night-stars ended, the sky settled into the light periwinkle color, and the sun took its rightful place just above Mobius's undetected, sub-stratospheric moon. Today, the blue matched Never Lake's crystal waters, and Little Planet shone in all its green glory.

No one really knew how Little Planet appeared in Mobius's sky. Its only historian, Yazwei the seer, had died in the massive Xorda virus attack. The Xorda hadn't existed for millions upon millions of years, but apparently it had found its way from the dinosaur era all the way to this alien race. What made things even stranger was, according to the few survivors that had listened to Yazwei's teachings – which was really only Zik, a small, beach-ball-like blue figure many Mobians would claim looked like a sloth – Little Planet wasn't even from Mobius. No one knew why the planet's land was so hexagonal; no one understood the hundreds of equally hexagonal holes that appeared in the planet periodically, revealing nothing but more sky behind them; no one could fathom how Mobians, as utterly stupid as some of them were, hadn't discovered them yet. With how many times the thing had crossed between the sun above and the land below, Little Planet had to be casting some sort of obvious shadow…

Zik wasn't worried about any of that right now. Before she died, Yazwei had told him of some mythical ability to tap into someone's deepest desires, to "read their hearts". It was aptly named soultouch, though Zik didn't understand what a soul exactly was, nor why anyone would want to touch one. Well, okay, there was one exception: his late wife, Zarai. She had touched his soul, if the soul was a person's breath of life and touching it meant giving that breath meaning. Meditation was Zik's escape from watching the Xorda eat her alive. He began each routine with a cough, reminiscent of the coughing Zarai was forced to do each morning with the virus stuck inside of her. From there, every movement was a symbolic display of passionate, honorable anger and despair from it all. Six thousand strong his species was; six strong it became. Today, though, each move had a special purpose. He pointed his staff toward the sky, and then toward a nearby bird; nothing. He swung from the wooden head and pointed his forefinger at a tree; nothing again. What the blazes was the soultouch mantra, anyhow? How did "breathing in warm air" make any sense?

Zazz wasn't one to know. In fact, Zazz didn't really know much of anything when it came to comprehension. He was sure he could figure it out eventually, but his mind had other things to do. Like think about how much fun it would be to jump off a tree and land crotch-first in a river. Or how awesome dinosaurs must have been when they screamed. Or why Mobians thought hentai (whatever hentai was) was the best thing since sliced bread (whatever bread was). And all in the same breath, too. Or thought? Whatever, all he knew was that he was running through the pines of the Mystic Forest, and no one knew that he had created a circuit board deep within the hexagonal workings of the planet. No one even knew if he had been in the center of the planet. He had shown his best friend, Yakker, to his father, Zik; his brother, Zomom; and his soon-to-be sister-in-law, Zeena. "I only call him that because he never shuts up, y'see," he had demonstrated a few weeks ago, as Yakker did a flip in mid-air, its glowing cyan "body" reflecting against Zazz's pink glow. "He and his buddies are called 'Wisps', and they run on some nuclear energy called…well, I don't know, but I think it sounds like hyper-go-ons, so let's go wit' that!" Of course, his family completely ignored him. Times like those were times he longed to forget; times like those were why Zazz kept running.

Zomom ate about as much as Zazz ran. Ever since his mother died, he had binged and gorged on every food imaginable; by the age of fifty, he had ballooned to five hundred pounds. That was five hundred years ago. It didn't help that his sister, brother, and father would attempt to harmlessly tease him over his weight. As his physical girth grew, his mental health shrunk to about the size of a baby pea, which was even more frustrating for Zomom, considering that he used to be the smartest of his side of the Zeti family. He had built a transmitter to the Mobian world (which he had given to Zazz) and a cooling unit to save the south side of the planet from drying out (which he had also given to Zazz). Zomom had even helped his pink-scaled brother create the inner cybertectonics of Little Planet, even if he and his giant yellow belly that practically accounted for another Zeti in itself had no clue what the huge blue hexes were, or why Zazz was rambling on about some Mobian lowlife's journey to some faraway land. But the constant teasing and bullying got to him one day, and his brain just…stopped. Nobody understood why – which seemed to be a common theme of the Zeti, not understanding things – but it happened, and nobody was extremely happy that it did, if they were to be frank with him. Life went on without Zomom's brain, eventually.

On the other side of the "planet" stood a tall, muscular red figure. Zavok, as he was called, hurled rocks high into the air in frustration. He didn't want the clan to continue. He wanted control, he wanted power over the clan, and as of right now, he knew he couldn't have it. If there was no birth above the lake, the old adage rang in the brain buried deep within tufts of matted red-grey fur, a new clan leader thou shalt make. But if a child doth come to rise, leader one shall claim his prize. His damned son just had to fall for the daughter of that hack, didn't he? Zavok's growing anger caused more stones to appear in the air. He was clearly the strongest in all of Mobius. Yet, the two boys on "otherside", as he called it, had built a transmitter to the Mobian world, so he was also clearly never going to have an opportunity to explore Mobius for what it really was, at least in his mind – a wasteland of disgusting vermin, human and Mobian alike.

The two halves of the Zeti clan connected through the romance between Zor, the son of Zik, and Zeena, the daughter of Zavok. Zor was Zavok's only son, as demonstrated by the spots of dark purple skin that contrasted with his lavender fur. Scars of deep red lined his legs, and the trauma of all this abuse came to a head with one look at his matted tuft of black hair. But all of that torment seemed to melt from his face when he was around Zeena. Her beautiful physique – well, beautiful in Zeti terms – made her quite the sought-after figure before the Xorda destroyed their clan, but her perfectionist complex had brought anxiety to her mind at an early age. It didn't help that social interaction made her more nervous than anything; her attractive qualities...attracted others to her easily, making her the subject of countless "compliments" met with just as many internal panic attacks. Around Zor, these all disappeared. Well, except the one right now.

"What happens if it's only one?," the green girl asked in a shaky voice.

"We make do with what we have, I guess," said the boy in an equal vibrato.

"But what if it's a boy? What if it isn't a girl?"

"I…don't know."

"Zor…I'm going to need your help."

"Zeena, I know, but…I just don't know if I'm going to be much help. I'm just as scared as you are." He sat beside his expectant girlfriend.

"You really shouldn't be, hon'." _I got us into this mess, after all_. Zeena hated even thinking about opening that box she'd been given. It was just a present; how could he know that ancient Compsognathus skull had that dangerous of a disease _still active_ inside it?

"I know I shouldn't. You're the one doing this." Zor had slept with her once. Once! He didn't even think they'd done anything that night, but he must have sleep-done her, or something of that nature, because here they were, almost nine months later (very premature for a Zeti, which only compounded matters), and Zeena was about to give birth to what could be the last of the Zeti.

"Ugh!" A grunt forced its way through Zeena as she prepared. The babies – or baby – was coming.

Zeena's cry echoed through the numerous holes in Little Planet's exoskeleton, and the other four Zeti ran to the birthing ground. Zik used his stick to travel on the wind, much like a witch's broom; Zazz clambered through the trees as fast as his lanky arms could take him; Zomom used his ample size to his advantage as he rolled up and down the momentum-friendly hillside; Zavok threw a stone three times his own bulk into a makeshift catapult and launched himself to the grounds. All four reached the couple at the same time. Of course…

"We missed it," cursed Zomom, his mouth still full of pork.

"No matter," huffed Zavok. "What matters is the child is unharmed. Isn't that right," he cleared his throat and growled through gnashed fangs, " _Master_?"

"Oh, that's quite right," muttered Zik, slightly put off by Zavok's brash display of disrespect. The Zeti had maintained a strict policy on respecting the elders of the clan; seven-hundred-and-fifty-five years had made Zavok's crimson fur grow somewhat grey, but Zik was still the leader at his wise and noble age. "Now, we must—"

The leader was interrupted by a cry from the lone baby. Zeena felt empty, on the inside and out. _Zeti don't cry! Zeti don't cry!_ She barely kept calm as her stomach tied in knots atop her freshly-relaxed womb.

She wasn't the only one that noticed. "Uh…why's it doing that?," Zazz wondered aloud, half-frightened and half-intrigued.

Zor, in his typical naïve tone, echoed, "I don't know, but it's not normal…is it, Dad?"

"No, son, it isn't," Zavok snarled as he looked more closely at the newborn. Zeti had scaly skin and sleek, smooth fur like a plush doll. This…this _thing_ had something seemingly opposite. Its skin was smooth and clean. What little fur it had – for Zeti were born full-furred, aside from faces and other hidden areas – was coarse, matted at the head with quill-like structure. He took a look at its white eyes that were shut, now, with tears still escaping from between lashes and lids. He turned his head and looked the mother dead in the eye. "Care to explain, Zeena?"

Zomom piped up with his slurred voice, seeing his sister's desperate frown. "Uh, maybe that virus did something more than we thought?"

Zor saw this as an idea to save his partner from his father's wrath. "Yeah, Dad, maybe…maybe the Xorda caused this? Zeena was infected and barely survived…maybe it messed with her body?"

Zavok's grunts of disapproval were channeled from his throat into his feisty black knuckles. "I don't believe you. Zeena…tell me the truth...," he glared, "after I…welcome you to the family…"

Zik jumped in between his daughter and his opponent. Zavok's fist was less than an inch away from Zik's face, and a scream entered Zik's ears as he blocked Zeena from the damage. Just then, Zik was surrounded by a black cloud of screaming violence. He gasped as Zavok's dreams of murder and destruction to the four "othersides" danced around him. One showed a grotesquely graphic picture of Zavok thrusting Zik's staff into the blue leader's feeble chest; another saw his son being eviscerated by the red beast's biceps; another demonstrated Zomom being asphyxiated, and a final one…well, he didn't even let it come to clarity before he averted the punch at hand. The moment ended, and the six stood around in silence.

"Well, Zavok must be why nobody can find us if he keeps making everything dark like that," Zomom chortled after minutes of tangible tension. No one joined in. Zazz and Zavok gave quizzical looks to Zik, while Zeena and Zor stayed stunned, staring at their leader in a way one would stare at somebody who just jumped off a two-hundred-story building and lived to tell the tale. Zik was just as stunned – and equally as harrowed. The joke finally fell on Zomom's pink brother's ears, and he cracked up in hysterical mania, making everyone else laugh, even if Zavok was more growling than laughing.

"Alright, guys, alright," Zeena, who had finally calmed from the attack, said through bouts of laughter. "I've got to name this kid. Any thoughts?"

"Well, as you know, it has to be an A name," Zavok snorted. "A new one. It can't be Aeos, and since she was the only woman and I don't think you'll be naming this girl Andros, Argos, or Ahmos, I think it's best you pick something…a bit more normal."

Zazz chimed in. "How abou—"

"Atros sounds nice!," Zomom interrupted. The other five looked at him like he had noses atop his spiky head. "Okay, maybe not."

"How abo—"

"Angola," Zor said. This named seemed a bit more tolerable. "You know, like the angles of her hair." The group groaned.

Zazz cleared his throat loudly. "How about Amelia?"

"Amelia?," the other five gasped in surprise.

"Yeah. Amelia. I like it."

Amelia was the name of a human – a Mobian – who heard the Zeti sing a millennium ago and tried to fly to Little Planet. Something apparently went wrong with her plane and she crashed into Never Lake, never to be heard from again. A shame, really, because according to Yazwei, who had apparently intercepted her plane, she had no more fuel and was going to try to land on Little Planet. But nonetheless, her name was a very important name in Zeti culture, and with this baby… "It fits," Zeena said. "Thanks, Zazz."

Zor gave his lover the baby, and Zeena held it close to her bosom. The young, pink thing was cuter than she could have ever imagined. She looked down at her daughter lovingly. "My little Amy…"

"Well, now that that's settled, I—" Zik began to say, before Zeena interrupted.

"Actually, there is something I need to tell all of you…"


	4. Chapter 3: In Sickness and in Health

"Glass of water for you, sir?"

"Yes, please." No one could really understand Ogilvie Nadelmaus's raspy voice unless they leaned in extremely close, but what did it matter? At least he could hear himself. Surprisingly, Nurse Julayla Prudence heard him on the first breath; maybe he _was_ getting his strength back. Ogilvie rubbed the back of his left ear gently, where the cancerous bulge had grown to a sizable ball. His short stature and aged body made removing it far too risky; he wished he had noticed it sooner. It had been almost ten years to the day of Ogilvie's collapse, and he still remembered every moment of it.

"Sir Nadelmaus," Elder Frederic's voice rang in Ogilvie's nostalgic hedgehog ears, "do you have any legitimate reason why my son shouldn't be king? If you do, please speak now."

Ogilvie remembered rising from his Council chair. He _thought_ his reason was entirely legitimate. The Acorn lineage, from Alexander to Sebastian and finally to Frederic, was horribly overpowered. Between the centuries-old battle with the Overlanders and the close connection to the Source of All, the Kingdom was close to the Gaia spirits and culture. Too close. So close, in fact, that any policy even thought to be against the official religion of the Kingdom was immediately annulled by the Council (much to Ogilvie and young Sherman Tuskman's dismay); so close, in fact, that the "freedom of religion" enshrined in the Mobian Doctrine had been retooled to mean "freedom to practice Gaio in any way one so pleased". Ogilvie looked around the Council table.

Rosie Marshall's charcoal cat fur looked like satin beneath the jade-stained skylight ornamenting the Palace of Acorn. She and Ogilvie had certainly seen their fair share of bloodshed; they had been partnered with her eventual husband, Catt Marshall, on numerous assignments during the Second Overlander Folly, a mistake that had haunted Frederic's early career. The three of them had mastered the art of Contraction, or using the Source to shrink themselves to subatomic size. Rosie had also introduced Ogilvie to her childhood friend and his future wife, Juliana Longmore, a lanky purple-furred porcupine that had raised the two Nadelmaus sons while simultaneously becoming the best legal defender in pretty much all of Mobius. Rosie was well-known in the Council – and Kingdom – for strongly supporting Elder Frederic during his days as king.

Next to Rosie sat a very obese cobalt walrus. Sherman was the first of his family to even live this side of the Lantic Ocean; growing up in Iceborough had its perks, but apparently this Tuskman wanted something different. A very ambitious seventeen-year-old, Sherman had moved here with his girlfriend Georgette and become politically involved enough to earn a valid spot on the Council in just ten months. His connection to Iceborough was key in the Kingdom's diplomacy, and bridged the two opposing countries together quite nicely. It hadn't hurt that Sherman had almost immediately befriended Amadeus Prower, the newest leader of the Royal Air Force, either. However, Sherman wasn't very well-liked elsewhere in the kingdom, if only for his extremely "progressive" views that mostly included de-capitalizing the Acorn society.

To Sherman's left sat Rosemary Niles, a Mazurian refugee that came to the country to escape the Overlander conflicts in her Middle Eastern Homeland. She was fluent at least twelve languages, which made her a very important diplomatic asset much like Sherman, but she was also a fair hand. Well, fair in Acorn terms, at least. The fox greatly opposed the death penalty for any sort of violent crime, but was a proponent of excessive torture if necessary. She wasn't one to openly voice her opinion on education – being education in the Kingdom of Acorn consisted of "read today, forget tomorrow" – but secretly, Ogilvie knew she would change it in a moment. However, Rosemary was highly pious, to the point of converting her fiancé to Gaio.

Beside Rosemary was Ogilvie's empty chair. Next to where he stood sat Anand D'Coolette, grand vizier of what used to be the nation of Spagonia and father of its current stately president, Armand. Anand was tricked by President Alx Towers of the United Federation into surrendering the nation, and the king-like coyote still regretted it. He came to the Kingdom to set things right with Frederic, who deemed him untrustworthy. Due to his rampant popularity overseas, Anand was almost immediately invited to a seat on the Council that was recently vacated by local pastor Tobias Tortell. It was a lower position of power than Anand was used to, which led to Frederic and him arguing quite embarrassingly often. However, both were equally as pious and as pivotal in making the Kingdom so horribly Gaia-oriented.

Finally, to the left of Anand was pompous southern baron Tanner Rabbot. Ogilvie never quite understood why Tanner, of all people, was chosen to occupy the seat of recently-deceased Valdez Nage, the great spy. The jackrabbit was a rich, spoiled brat of a proper gent. Ogilvie read his application and wondered how any of the other Council members didn't see right through his accomplishments of "wrestling a fellow crocodile", "rediscovering the Floating Island", and "rescuing the Chaos tribe". To make matters even more confusing, Tanner was rumored to have extensive ties to the Overlanders. It was as if he had brainwashed the rest of the Council into believing he _was_ reliable. Part of that was probably how much he loved to profess his devotion to his country, his estate, and, of course, his religion.

In his dreams, Ogilvie would always say yes. He had a problem with continuing the Acorn line. The kingdom needed to take a swing to the left before the Overlanders attacked, and _fast._ In his dreams, Ogilvie would ignore the fact that Anand, Tanner, and Rosemary would already have given the current king's wish a four-to-three majority. He would ignore the politics behind Rosie's reluctant agreement with Elder Frederic. He would allow Sherman to take the floor and announce in his boisterous brogue how wonderful Iceborough and, truly, all of the Tundra had been under a more democratic rule. In his dreams, the Kingdom of Acorn was not a monarchy. In his dreams, Ogilvie Nadelmaus was the spark that lighted a liberating flame in all of Mobotropolis, all of this Kingdom, all of Mobius itself. But his memory was quick to show him what really happened ten years ago.

Ogilvie's lips formed a vivid pucker met with glares from Anand and Frederic; Tanner was too busy filing his Southern nails to a polish, and Rosemary had too terrible of an angle to see what was going on. The hedgehog's balance was thrown off – was it by the smiles from Rosie and Sherman, or by the cancer? He didn't know. Visions of Juliana and their twin children danced around his eyes as his vision went blurry. His ears let loose a deafening ring. He thought he remembered a sickly moan. Within a second, the Knight of Peace was unconscious on the ground, and Rosemary discovered the lump behind his exposed left ear.

Dr. Julian Kintobor, a friendly native that had been rescued from his tribe by Ogilvie himself at a relatively young age, diagnosed the hedgehog within the first hour. The tumor hadn't spread yet, but it was too strong and the body it occupied was too weak for it to be removed. There was a slim chance the former warrior would survive, but it would take years to survive. "Give me ten years," Ogilvie had said, and new King Maximilian hesitantly accepted. "I can get through this." But he wasn't getting through this. For five years, he struggled through the abnormalcy of hospital life. He was still able to eat and drink perfectly fine, but things like walking out of his room became more of a challenge than running through trees ever was. After those five years, his health had taken a turn for the worse, and within months, he was put on life support. Ogilvie was still alive, and still conscious, but barely.

The telephone rang. Somehow, Ogilvie's left arm had grown stronger than his dominant right, so he had the phone reinstalled last year for easier access. He didn't think anyone could access it, but he had given the number to his brother…

"Howdy, Ogie!" cried the all-too-familiar voice of Robin O'Hedge.

Ogilvie grunted. "Rob, you know all your shouting gives me a headache…"

A chuckle crackled through the line. "Heh, well, you know me, always laughin'."

Rob was a notorious world traveler (and prankster). The siblings were separated when Rob was only two, but reconnected in Ogilvie's late twenties when he traveled to Mercia, a small forest just miles inland of the Spagonian Channel. Ogilvie was almost nine years older than his brother, and time did not bode well for his fur, but as the hastily-taped photographs demonstrated on the back of the sporadic postcards, Rob's emerald coat was still shining at forty-five. "Hey, think you can keep a secret?"

Ogilvie looked at the clock and sighed. "Sorry, Rob, I'm dying fast."

"Ah, but I've gotta tell somebody the news!"

"Rob…they're taking me off of life support in half an hour." The shock wasn't visible, but it sure was audible, even if silent. "Can you tell anyone else? What about Friar Buck?"

Rob was obviously frustrated. "Look, you're my brother and my friend. You ought to know this, even if you're takin' it to your pathetic lil' grave."

Ogilvie surrendered. "Alright, what is it?"

"I found Little Planet!"

With that, the Knight dropped the phone to the floor. It landed with a loud thud, and Ogilvie reached his arm to the ground to pick it up.

"Isn't that gre—"

"Sir?" Julayla interrupted as she handed the hedgehog his glass. "Is everything alright? I heard a crash."

Ogilvie gave a thumbs up and a weak wink. Julayla left the room, which prompted Ogilvie to launch tons of questions. "Where is it? What's on it? Is there anything dangerous? What kind of tech—"

"Calm your mush-lovin' balls, Ogie, I'm gettin' there. It all started when Patchy gave me a call."

"Patchy? As in…Pachacamac?" Ogilvie had met the Soultouch clan's leader once long ago. It wasn't a pretty meeting.

"You got it! The crazy guy told me how close his Island was gonna be to the Planet, they pass it every quarter-century or so. So yeah, I hitched a ride on it."

"Does anyone live there?"

Another earsplitting laugh burst into Ogilvie's head. "Yup! I only met one, she was nice. But she didn't show me—well, she showed me _plenty_ …mm-hmm…"

Ogilvie was getting annoyed; his brother tended to have some sort of sex complex where he imagined getting it on with every single woman he'd ever met, but never really actually done anything. "Get on with it, lover boy."

"Well anyway, I didn't meet anybody else, but there were a lot of Mobinis running around. Good lil' creatures, those guys are. It's a shame they'll never be more like us, but hey, more meat, I guess."

Another familiar shadow walked toward Ogilvie's room, and a pair of glinting sky-colored eyes peered into the window.

"Rob…I hate to cut this short…but…goodbye."

Just as Ogilvie took the telephone off his ear, so had Charles Nadelmaus bounded into the room and taken the phone from his frail father, placing it in its resting place. "Hey, Dad, I heard the news. I'm sorry."

Ogilvie patted the side of the bed, motioning for his son to take a seat. "Yeah, son, I am, too. I was hoping to stick around, but this old ear isn't what it used to be." The two shared a small laugh, though it was rightfully subdued.

Charles broke the laughter with an exciting announcement, his eyes aflame with joy. "Jules and I…we're knights, just like you, Dad!"

Ogilvie didn't hesitate to smile. "That's wonderful! Where is your brother?"

Charles's eyes lit up again. "Bernie and he are having Martin! She's due any moment now!"

Ogilvie smiled again. "That's good to hear. It's a shame I'll never see him…"

Charles hushed his father. "You might not see them, but you're still one of 'em."

"Hrm?"

"They named the first one after you, and the second one after Bernie's gramps. They thought it would be a…a nice tribute," said Charles. His excitement was being slowly washed away by the tears welling in his large blue eyes as the realization that his dying father lay in front of him set in like a knife through the heart.

Ogilvie struggled to sit up, his nostrils fighting with the ventilator keeping him alive. "Don't cry," he whispered as his own tears fell on his cheek. He couldn't believe his body wasn't going to stay long enough to see the next Nadelmaus generation. "You've got years ahead of you. I'm too sick to go on, and I'm just as sad when it comes to that, but…I guess that's just how it has to be. Just…be strong, Charles. You'll find what you're looking for eventually." Father and son embraced for what seemed like seconds to both of them, but really was almost fifteen minutes.

Charles looked at his silenced cell phone. Ten message alerts, including a video chat, all from his brother. "Well, he's out!," he said, trying to read everything as quickly as possible. "But…it doesn't look like he's made it…"

"What do you mean?"

Fresh tears rose to the surface of Charles's eyes as he mouthed a ten-letter word no former parent wanted to hear: "Stillbirth."

Ogilvie was startled, but not surprised. "You know…we had three children, but the first…she was a still as well."

Charles looked stunned. "You never told me! Or Jules!"

The elder hedgehog leaned back into his bed, his body weakening fast. "I know. Her name was Sonia. She had your eyes…" A recognizable pain swept through Ogilvie's head, but this time, he fought for his consciousness. He couldn't believe his last conversation with his son would be this short. He waved goodbye as the strength left him.

Charles took one last loving look at his father and left the room, accidentally bumping into a doctor in the process. Said doctor entered the room with a limp, damp rag against his hip. The lean figure stood tall above Ogilvie's paling body. "Are you ready, Sir Nadelmaus?"

Ogilvie took his last gulp of air and nodded. He felt the ventilator being tugged from his nose. He breathed.

 _Wait a minute…I can breathe. I can breathe!_

A sudden wave of strength dominated his body. The doctor saw his patient move out of the corner of his eye, then gasped as the hedgehog sat up. "I can breathe! This is a miracle!," Ogilvie exclaimed. "I can finally—"

The cloth covered Ogilvie Nadelmaus's lips as he inhaled hot acid. As quickly as he came alive, the Knight of Peace was dying. He watched in terminal horror as his killer bolted out of the room, shooting hospital nurses as he ran by. _Colin…no…_.


	5. Chapter 4: Power Enriched by the Heart

_Why must my father do this?,_ Tikal pondered as she sat on the steps of the shrine. Her father, Pachacamac, was the sixteenth guardian of the Chaos Ruby, an artifact nobody in the Albion clan knew what to do with. The tribe considered such a mystery "holy", even though it was just a giant jewel. Well, a giant jewel that the Ancients had magnetically altered to cause Angel Island to float, anyway. Pachacamac wasn't always one to keep the peace in the Soultouch tribe. In fact, really, he never was. Tikal was out to change that.

Pachacamac Albion Soultouch, birthnamed Sabre, brought violence into a tribe that had normally been peaceful. Specifically, the "leader" targeted the neighboring Chaos tribe, a group of former Southern Baronies that colonized the sandy beaches of the Island. While pompous and violent themselves, the Chaos did make a very conscious effort to protect the Chao. The nigh-immortal creatures had immense healing powers and could only die under senseless murder; unfortunately for them and the Chaos tribe itself, Pachacamac was keen on killing for sport. _If only he could truly see how preciously beautiful they are_ , Tikal thought. She didn't care about the keys to immortality and creation that these mystical things apparently held. She only cared about preventing their immoral destruction.

Tikal placed her hand in the frigid waters of the shrine. Something moved that would rightfully frighten anyone who laid their unsuspecting hand there, but Tikal was more than used to Chaos "talking" to her. The sacred water being was her discovery and hers alone. She found that he controlled the Chao, save a few rogues that had been forced into life in the tribe of the hares and didn't know any better. The lack of language was no problem for Tikal's hands.

The echidnas could actually physically touch the soul of any being, living or inanimate, like Chaos. Ever the pacifist, Tikal loved using this ability on the meanest and cruelest people she knew. In power, Tikal was virtually limitless; in delivery, she was limitlessly virtuous - gentle, even - enough to send messages of love and hope to anyone she used it on. Well, anyone except her father. She feared her father. Conversations between souls were like sunlight for dark minds and fire for cold hearts. In Pachacamac, however, his mind was a black hole that swallowed the light, and his heart was frozen shut.

"The servers are the seven Chaos. Chaos is power, power enriched by the heart. The heart is the controller. The controller serves to unify the Chaos." Tikal could never forget those words of her grandmother. Darla Soultouch led the tribe by peace, uniting her clan with the only other known surviving echidna clan, the Nocturns. The harmony thus created was short-lived, however; she died five years ago, forcing her son to take the helm. The local doctors called it anxiety - fear, even - and she was given a proper burial. Tikal longed to see Darla before the burial; the elder echidna had taught her granddaughter that souls remained within their bodies for one solar day before they disappear. But Pachacamac refused to let his daughter go to the funeral. In fact, Pachacamac was generally abusive toward his only daughter; maybe it was that her mother died just days after giving birth to her. Maybe he was mad that Tikal wasn't a boy, because even a thousand years removed from the tyrannic second millennium, boys were still the royal favorite. In all, maybe it was a good thing he didn't know of Tikal's connection to Chaos.

A young, fearful member of the Chaos tribe approached the shrine. Tikal, being friendly, said, "hello?"

The rabbit looked back at the echidna with large bunny eyes and timidly stuttered, "H-hello?"

Tikal attempted to calm her. "Hello there, little one. Need to talk?" Chaos began to stir, assuring Tikal he knew of the young girl's presence.

"Um…yes…"

"Well, come join me," Tikal replied with a smile, in the hopes that the girl trusted her.

The girl suddenly ran to the shrine. Tikal was keen to notice her tattered white dress and dirty arms, evidence of neglected lower-class life. "What is your name?," the princess inquired, praying secretly for an answer.

The girl pretended to ignore Tikal's pleas, offering only one short look. She seemed to be intently watching Chaos' green eyes… _I wonder…_

"Hey, where did you get that little guy?" the echidna asked, motioning toward the cyan Chao on the girl's shoulder.

The girl began to turn her head toward Tikal, who initiated a soultouch of happiness and peace into her. Bewildered, she stammered, "I-I—What did you just…do?"

Tikal tried to explain. "I am a Soultouch, a member of the lone surviving Echidna tribe."

The girl, who had to be at least ten, whimpered in fright. "Are you going to hurt me?"

"No, I promise," Tikal reassured, both angry and expectant that the rabbit would think that. "I promise I'm wholeheartedly good." The rabbit sighed in relief. "My name is Tikal," the echidna introduced. "What is yours?"

"Oh, I am called Vanilla."

"That is a nice name."

"I think yours is, too." Tikal jumped at a sudden stir from Chaos, urging her to ask for Vanilla's connection to the shrine. "Why are you here?"

Vanilla hesitated, looking desperately at her Chao. "Cheese likes me to be here."

"I assume Cheese is your Chao?"

"Yes. He likes the water."

Well, that answers that. "Do you see those green things in the water?"

"Yes. Cheese tells me those are Chaos's eyes. Chaos rules his race."

Tikal was taken aback. _The girl can communicate with Chao? How is this possible?_ Even Soultouches couldn't communicate with the immortal creatures. Tikal's mind raced as she frantically searched for something to say back to Vanilla. Without focusing, she blurted, "As a Soultouch, I can communicate directly with Chaos."

"Really?" a surprised bunny asked.

"Yes," the princess declared, "and he tells me Cheese says you are kind." Now, she didn't actually ask that of Chaos, so she was extremely grateful that Chaos swirled around her hand in agreement.

Vanilla seemed happier now. "I love Cheese. He is my everything. My parents abandoned me as a child, and when I turned of age, my uncle Beauregard left me abused and cold. I found Cheese, who guided me to food and safety."

Tikal became a bit emotional with this story, as she saw a lot of correlations between herself and Vanilla. "Chaos is my refuge. My father leads this tribe in a very evil way…-"

"TIKAL!" the voice of Pachacamac tolled like a broken bell.

"Vanilla, run!" Tikal whispered, but before the words even left her lips, the rabbit was already gone. Smart girl, that Vanilla.

"Tikal, what are you doing at the holy shrine?" "Father, I—" "Why is your flesh in the water!? Evil lies in that pond!" Chaos stirred, angered at the harsh words of the tribal king.

"Evil doesn't lie here! Evil lies—" Tikal interrupted herself as a look of horror expanded across her face. "Father, what has happened to your face?"

"It isn't important, Tikal." "Father, your eyes are yellow and your fur is darker. What is wrong?"

Pachacamac grew very irritated. "I purged my soul," he grunted. "It was wasting precious room for strategies of war. Now go."

Terrified by her father's action, the princess sat stunned, and those tears from earlier began to roll down to her lips.

"Did you hear me, you worthless princess? I said go! GO!"

Tikal ran back to her home, still sobbing from the revelation. _I knew my father was ruthless. I didn't know he was purely evil._

Later that night, Tikal lay awake in her bed. Questions of how her father could have possibly purged his own soul danced in her head as she tossed around the idea of visiting Chaos. She snuck out of her bed and promptly dressed herself in her royal teal skirt…and noticed a beautiful pink ballgown with red lace in the far reaches of her closet. Remembering how terribly disintegrated the threads on Vanilla's old dress appeared, she grabbed the gown and escaped through the window, hoping her Chaos companion was already at the altar.

Tikal arrived, panting viciously, and stumbled on the ground facing the shrine. Chaos submerged itself in the pool, splashing a few drops onto Tikal's shoulder to comfort her. The princess brought herself to her feet and saw the shrine's waters swirling toward its center…as if it was inviting her in…

Just then, a cry - what sounded like a cry for help - echoed in the distance. "Hello!?," Tikal shouted, hoping it wasn't one of the clan watchmen searching for her.

An unfamiliar man approached the shrine. He looked like another Soultouch, with the white markings and sabertooth-laced necklace in honor of Pachacamac's birth, but he was, in a way, different. His fur was a brighter red than Tikal had ever seen, burning like fire but soothing like the juice of a pomegranate. "Hello?," she called, though much less dramatically than before. The mysterious red echidna looked at her. "Who are you?," she asked without thinking.

"Oh, I am Locke. You are Princess Tikal." A bright crimson flushed through his face in embarrassment. "I should g—"

"No, stay here," Tikal begged.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, she's sure," said Vanilla as she surprisingly entered what the princess thought was a private conversation.

"Vanilla? Do you know him?"

"Um…"

Locke interrupted in affirmation. "Yes, she knows me. I am her friend. No need to worry, your highness."

Tikal relaxed as she climbed out of the pool. "No need to call me highness, Locke."

Locke looked very confused. "Why are you in Chaos' pond?"

She tried to console him by stating, "Chaos and I have a…special bond…" Of course, this was met with odd looks from both Vanilla and Locke. "…No, not like that."

Locke seemed to understand. "Ah, the Soultouch. I still have that power. I hardly ever use it, however."

"Maybe I should leave you alone…" Vanilla said innocently.

Remembering the gift, Tikal stopped the girl. "Take this first," she said, gesturing to the gown. "I can't bear to see your poor heart in that white cloth any longer." Shocked, Vanilla thanked the princess and ran off with her new outfit.

"Well, princess, now that we are alone…I—I have a question," Locke timidly asked.

"Please, feel free to ask," Tikal said.

"Do you…like any of this…warring your father does? Do you like his wishes to punish us?"

She hesitated before letting the truth slip. "…No. Not at all. In fact, his actions are some of the few things I truly hate."

"Good," he remarked, "because I feel the same way."

Nearly a year had passed since Tikal first met Locke, and they began a secret relationship that magical night. She had alerted Lara, a maid and close friend of hers, of her pregnancy, so Lara had pretended to be Tikal - successfully, might she add - for the past four months. Knowing what her mother went through frightened Tikal as she slept by the shrine. Of course, Pachacamac hadn't made an effort to see his daughter as of late. He was far too busy lashing out against the Chaos tribe, which was almost fully destroyed at this point. Lara had alerted Tikal of a conversation she had overheard: "There are more hares," he commanded, "out in the rest of Mobius. There are no more echidnas." Vanilla also remained by the shrine for safety; her father and mother had come to the island, leaving her young sister Silk behind before perishing in what was described by their kingdom back home as a "freak accident".

It was a very normal night. Stars shone above the shrine, and the moon illuminated the couple's faces, along with those of Vanilla and Cheese, both excited for their godchild to be born. Locke sat on edge, awaiting an attack. He had been wary of his long-lost brother, Dimitri, and had told Tikal of the man, but they had not actually met. However, Chaos had notified the trio of a potential future where Dimitri murdered the couple, taking the newborn and raising it into a violent echidna that would destroy Angel Island. Tikal was completely against this. Chaos had turned warm to ease the process if need be; the warm waters were also supposed to ensure the child would grow into a peaceful, yet determined, echidna, much like its parents.

Suddenly, a dark figure cast a lengthy shadow in the moonlight. Tikal began labor in shock. A screaming Vanilla lifted her carefully, taking the two of them into to the forest behind the shrine. Locke stood swiftly, launching toward Dimitri as the darker echidna approached. Tikal shouted for Vanilla to run away amidst her own panicked, shallow breaths. Locke and Dimitri were deadlocked, but the more unfamiliar, more violent of the two seemed to have the edge.

Tikal forced her breaths to get quieter. Locke was succumbing to the blows. Chaos suddenly swirled into a massive wall of water, bisecting the fighters and protecting the mother. The baby's spirit rose inside of Tikal; her grandmother had told her no spirit rose when Pachacamac was born, and, given the current events, this birth might have been a good omen. Sweating heavily, Tikal heaved the infant from behind the water-bound shrine; she couldn't tell who was winning the fight, nor could the warriors tell if she was alive.

The baby crawled out of its mother's womb and laid on the ground, whimpering. Tikal pushed through the seemingly endless pain, knowing that if she didn't leave now, she and her child would both die. She scooped up her newborn and prepared to run when she noticed two oddly sharp quills on the tips of its knuckles. She whispered to herself its name: "Machu Kiva." Without checking on her love, she ran with the baby safely in her arms.

When she finally arrived at the Soultouch Palace, Tikal handed Machu to Lara, who took the newborn to a hidden hut deep in the jungle of Angel Island. Her father had a note taped to the door of her room:

"Tikal,  
I will be visiting you do discuss something very special that you will like. I promise you. I am sorry for how cold I have been toward you as of late. Please don't do anything foolish.  
Sincerely,  
Father"

 _What kind of a father "visits" their helpless, unmarried children?_ , Tikal thought as she jumped on her bed, the energy finally out of her. Soon after, her father entered the room with his stern, newly-twisted face. "Tikal, we need to talk."

"Yes, Father, we do," she replied, peering deeply into his harrowing yellow eyes.

"I have thought long and hard about how to say this to you…"

"As have I, Father."

"You are being married to Dimitri Soultouch tonight."

Tikal was stunned. "W-what!?"

"You need to have a man other than myself teaching you the ways of the Soultouch." Pachacamac's eyes looked emptier than ever before.

Tikal let loose a rebel yell. "What do you know about the ways of the Soultouch? We were once a peaceful tribe, living in harmony with all other tribes, and now what are we? Are we destined to be ruthless murderers with no sense of compassion or respect? Must we fight others so heartlessly that we are left to fend against ourselves?

"I looked up to you once, Father. You continued the legacy of my grandmother by the unity of all Echidna tribes. Yet, you murdered everyone that was not biologically a Soultouch, and then you purged your own soul out of a necessity to bring more war to the land? Do you want us to die here, Father?"

Tikal's love for her father and hatred for his actions were met with a cold, blank stare.

"Again, you will be married to Dimitri tonight," he repeated, robotically, almost jovially, as if he had planned this for months. "In fact, I know just the dress you should wear…"

Tikal knew exactly what dress he would put on her. It wasn't hers anymore. She took the chance while his back was turned and ran, this time knowing her father would stop at nothing to find her, hunt her, and maybe even kill her. Her thoughts flooded with images of Locke, of Vanilla, of Machu, of Lara, and of all the friends and family she had to escape from. She arrived at the shrine, and Chaos almost immediately sensed the drastic situation. Tikal touched the water, summarizing the day's events as quickly as she could. The water became bitter cold, then scalding hot, then a very odd bluish hue no one had even conceived before. Chaos rose out of the water. In a desperate attempt to control the being, Tikal recited the poem her grandmother had taught her all those years ago.

"The servers are the seven Chaos," she declared with a trembling voice. "Chaos is power…power enriched by the heart. The heart is the controller. The controller serves to unify the chaos."

Chaos swam rapidly through the air, harnessing its newfound power from the Ruby and flooding the island. Tikal was informed of Dimitri's escape, Machu, Lara, and Locke's refuge, and the death of almost every other member of the tribe - including Pachacamac. But she was quickly losing control of the water being. She recited the poem again, this time with a more definite ending. Her last sight was a vision of her son fending off a large army of metallic creatures, wielding his fists in a feisty flurry incomparable to anything ever seen. Then, she left her body behind as it vanished deep within the Ruby. She hoped, above all else, Machu Kiva Soultouch would prevent the Ruby's seal from being broken, so Chaos and she could not unleash themselves upon Mobius.


	6. Chap 5: Espionage in Expensive Lingerie

"So…you want me to do what, exactly?"

The shadow of General Alxandr Towers stretched across the black wicker table as he peered into the piercing green eyes of Cocoa Pascall, the newest member of the Mobian Alliance. Fifty years ago, the U.F. let in its first ever indigenous Overlander; now, that man was somewhere up in space, doing research on the not-so-mythical Black Arms and some other top-secret projects. Next stop, especially with the acquisition of Spagonia? Letting Mobians back in the country. Cocoa, like many others involved in the Alliance, was born and raised by an extremely rich family in the Kingdom of Acorn, and her aristocratic status made her a valuable member of a troupe that currently only consisted of herself, a hefty bird called Madge Alba, a former Knight of Acorns in Drake Longmore, and a spry old owl that only went by Harvey; it was a running gag among the group to call him Harvey Who, if only for his speech impediment.

Cocoa wasn't really new, per se. She had held her badge against her vest for three years. But the whole thing still felt…new to her. She learned she replaced Tanner Rabbot, a former Southern Baron that was working as a liaison to the U.F. while serving on the Council of Acorn. His wife had apparently died just after their second daughter was born; Tanner was left with no choice but to separate them, one going to his sister Pauliann and the newborn living with his brother, Beauregard. Cocoa technically wasn't supposed to know that, beings it was in a top-secret folder, but she was a spy. What did she have better to do? Besides, at least she knew the only reason she was here was because Tanner had the U.F. "execute" him because the Acorns were on his scent. What a spy he was.

"Do you need me to go over your instructions again, Ms. Pascall?"

Cocoa rolled her eyes. "I need you to go over them in general, Mr. Towers."

She was faced with a grimace of obvious frustration. General Towers did not appreciate having to repeat things he had never said aloud. "Alright, as you wish. There's a terrorist operative in Spagonia I need you to track down and arrest."

"You've told me that part," Cocoa crooned, now filing her steely nails in boredom. "You haven't told me how I'm supposed to do that, sir."

"Oh," Towers growled sheepishly, "I suppose I did neglect that part. Alright, here goes…" He pulled his computer out from under the table and projected a cinematic plan a few feet from Cocoa's face.

"It's nearly impossible to get into Spagonia, even though it's technically U.F. territory. So, I've equipped you with a passport people there will actually recognize." The tall Overlander reached his arm across the table, handing Cocoa a slim card with a photo and some fake identification. "Once you dye your fur, you'll look very, very similar to one of the current Council of Acorn members – Rosie Marshall – so this will come in quite handy. We've built a jet that looks and behaves just like one of their planes. Madge will pilot it, and the two of you will land at a liaison airport just outside of Ville Mort-du. From there, I have called upon the del Sol royalty to provide you with a car, which will drive you to a hotel deep within the city. Lady Tranquille already knows of your arrival; she will be dressed as a maid and will address you the moment you enter the lobby. Ask her if she knows of any good shops around." Cocoa wasn't exactly sure she liked the direction this was going – she had heard of shopping as a spy before, and really wasn't into shopping on the field – but she didn't go into this line of work because she liked it.

"So…are you implying…"

Towers raised his eyebrows. "I think you know exactly what I'm implying. The easiest way for a terrorist to make money over there is that, after all."

Cocoa snickered. "Oh, I can think of plenty of other ways. Drugs, porn, starting a flower shop for Gaia's sake—"

"Well, the first two pretty much go hand-in-hand with sex work, and we don't exactly have the time to set up a flower shop, now, do we?"

The tabby laughed again. "I mean, isn't that what you want me to do?"

Towers stammered. "Well, I—"

"Look, Alx," Cocoa huffed, "I'll do it. I know it'll bust the ring faster, and it'll kill two birds with one stone, no offense to half the Alliance. But I will say this; if anything happens to me, I need you to make sure no one finds out. And by making sure, I mean, don't leave the files open on your computer screen so I can just walk by and take a peek like I did with Madge's application." She winked. He blushed. She left the room, and he closed the projection. Cocoa always made sure to stay by the door, ear cupped against the metal, as a spy tactic. Force of habit, she guessed. She heard Towers ramble on some staticky phone call to a guy named Colin about "the native" and "breaking the olive branch". Not knowing how to make sense of all this, Cocoa walked away, knowing she was in for the ride of her life that night.

Dusk quickly dissipated in the harbor of Station Square, the U.F.'s national capital. At nearly midnight, Cocoa followed Madge into the disguised jet. The albatross, while a skilled pilot, was one of the clumsiest beasts Cocoa had ever met, so she wasn't surprised when she had to help Madge off the floor of the plane after tripping on the last step. "Sorry", the bird warbled with a giggle. The two sat in the cockpit, set the destination in the jet, and took off.

"Madge," Cocoa asked, "do you ever get the feeling that maybe…maybe Towers is exploiting us?"

Madge yawned. They were three hours in, only about halfway to their destination, and the sleepy sun was passing them by. "Maybe," she absent-mindedly replied.

Cocoa wasn't convinced. "I just…I've been getting a really uneasy feeling about him lately. It really seems like he's setting us up for something. He said something about breaking an olive branch yesterday and it's really been making me uncomfortable…" Madge wasn't being much help. She started to reply, but then fell asleep at the helm. Cocoa decided dropping the subject was the best idea.

The next three hours dragged by as the lazy sun set further and further behind the jet, lighting up the sky in a fiery display of sea-friendly oranges before finally disappearing. Madge, who had partially trained herself to be nocturnal (well, according to her lackluster résumé, of course), woke up about half an hour before they were supposed to land. Ever the expert pilot, she deployed the gear and landed with more grace than her bird-like self could ever dream of. After landing in an empty terminal in an equally-desolate airport, Cocoa leapt out of the plane and swiftly tranquilized a suspecting janitor before walking toward the vacant curb. She activated the microphone beneath her dress the moment her white automotive vessel arrived, and a plump butler in a navy tuxedo escorted the two women into the backseat of the makeshift taxi. "You goin' to the Hôtel Cerise, ladies?"

"Yes," Cocoa scoffed in a hushed tone. "Now drive, sir."

The car ride was only a few minutes long. Nevertheless, it seemed like hours. Cocoa couldn't take her mind off of what the hell she was doing here, in Spagonia, with a mission that no lady was trained in because it was far too taboo to even discuss. The butler was clearly stuck in the heyday of Spagonian overrule, back when the countries of France and Spain covered the land that was now Mort-du and Mercia, beings he would not stop lighting cigarette after cigarette. He took deep puffs of air and short huffs of smoke, which made Madge wheeze in an annoying whistle that drove Cocoa nearly to madness when combined with her thought process.

The car pulled up to a burgundy hotel in one of the shadiest parts of the city. Cocoa and Madge didn't wait for their escort to open the doors. The rundown nightmare of a four-star place had a giant cherry adorning each door handle; Cocoa looked closer to see miniature designs carved into them, mostly of nude Overlanders. Inside, the lobby looked in some semblance of good condition, although the flaked gold paint was wearing off of quite a few of the overly-detailed pillars. Again, most of the "details" were very explicit drawings, though unlike the cherries outside the building, these were mostly of women. Cocoa was slightly disgusted by all this, but she turned away from it and met Lady Tranquille, who was, at the moment, mopping up some sort of nondescript mess.

"Ah, Rosie!," the woman shouted at Cocoa, much to Madge's delight. "Who's your friend here?"

"Oh, she's…she's Lou-Ann," Cocoa stuttered, looking for some sort of alias. "Lou-Ann Jones." Madge waved awkwardly.

"Well…that's a nice name." Lady Tranquille dropped her mop and escorted them to the front desk. "So, what brings you here to Ville Mort-du?"

Cocoa swallowed deeply, not expecting the reaction to what she was going to say next. "Um…well…we're going shopping."

Surprisingly, the heavyset Overlander knew exactly as to what the cat was alluding. "Ah, yes…there's one right around the corner." She gestured toward the back door and winked to the two women while handing Cocoa the key to their room. Cocoa smiled and walked outside the hotel as Madge left the building and called for a taxi.

The first thing she noticed was the smell. It was a distinct combination of smoke and liquor, the kind she recognized from her mission in Casinopolis. Then, she saw the guns. The tip jars. The butts. The condoms. The complete disarray of it all disgusted her, probably more so than the fact she was actually doing this. A scruffy coyote stood at the front of the line as the pack of bulldogs behind him whistled and screamed "Hiya Toots!", amongst several other insults and taunts. Cocoa shook the hooded figure's hand and, going along with the mission, whispered, "Come with me, honey."

The coyote was tall. His fur was just a tad darker than her natural color. He was tall – very tall – and somewhat slim, though his arms had some small bulges of exposed muscle. Cocoa was quick to also notice his tan skin that blended in nicely with his coat. She turned the key to the room and the man immediately took his grey jacket off, revealing an off-white t-shirt with the official logo of Spagonia on it. He whipped a pair of handcuffs out of his black trousers. Cocoa kicked the cuffs out of her assailant's hands. The coyote was taken aback, but immediately retaliated with a punch. The fight grew more and more intense, until finally…

"Who the hell are you?," cried Cocoa.

The man replied in a very thick accent Overlanders would describe as French. "Who needs to know?"

"I'm not answering that question," Cocoa retorted while flashing her U.F. agency badge, much to the man's dismay.

"Fine, madame. I am Armand D'Coolette, president of Spagonia."

"Then why in Gaia's name are you here? I don't think paying for sex is very presidential!"

Armand blocked the cat's next blow with his hand. "Might I ask who you are, young lady?"

"Now, what exactly do you think you're doing?"

"Nothing in particular, just trying to bust the ring and especially trying to bust any potential terrorist threats…"

Cocoa gulped. "That's what I'm doing, too."

Armand was growing impatient. "Look, if you give me no information about you, you give me no choice but to arrest you."

"If you give me an ultimatum like that, you give me no choice but to arrest you for interrogation purposes."

"Well, then," Armand continued, "I guess we're at a stalemate."

Cocoa reached into her bra and shut the microphone off. "Okay, Armand, I'm Cocoa Pascall, a field agent for the Mobian Alliance. I'm here because our leader warned us about some terrorist threats coming from Spagonia."

"And you feel the need to tell me this now, when I don't have the cuffs in my hand?"

"Yes, because I'm not about to tell you shit when I feel threatened."

Armand coughed. "Well, as I've said, I'm doing the same and would appreciate it if you kept your Overlander-loving nose out of our business."

"Honey," Cocoa said smoothly, "if we feel threatened, it's our business."

"Yes, well, I'm part of your idiotic country thanks to my father messing everything up."

Cocoa's fur stood on end at this. "Sure, the U.F.'s made mistakes, but how can you say it's idiotic?"

Armand shouted. "Can't you tell you're being played like a ragdoll? All of you? Surely you must think something's up. Why would they send you to do their own dirty work? Why would they put you in the most vulnerable position possi—"

Cocoa had had enough. "Because they trust me to do it! I'm a damn good spy, they know it, and I'm not about to—"

"You're being played and I can prove it. You'll get a call in about five minutes about how you've been terminated for giving misinformation, and they will find you and kill you like every other Mobian. I guarantee it." Armand hastily tried to put his jacket back on.

"No, they won't!," Cocoa screamed, both in a desperate effort to convince Armand and herself. "General Towers trusts us to spy on people like you because-"

"Because what!?," Armand cried in return. "Towers doesn't trust anyone! He doesn't care about anyone but himself! I should know."

"You should know? How?"

"…My father was the king of this country, and Towers took it from him."

Cocoa's mouth lay agape. "What do you mean…took it?"

Armand became angry. "Towers convinced my father that, if he surrendered Spagonia, the Mobians of this planet would be treated fairly. We've since lost all power. I am a figurehead, no more, no less. And I'm still sick of it."

Cocoa felt bad for the guy, but she was still frustrated. "So…you don't trust me, a Mobian, because I work for him?"

"You could say that again." Armand turned to leave.

"Wait!," Cocoa pleaded without thinking. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you."

The two of them stood face-to-face. Armand leaned on the door, and Cocoa walked toward him, and, like any good spy, both agents got lost in the moment.

Just minutes later, much like predicted, Cocoa's phone tucked inside her bra began to ring with abandon. She picked it up. "Hello, Towers."

"Cocoa, we heard everything that just happened. If you ever return to Station Square, or the U.F. in general, you will be assassinated, and I don't think you'd like that very much, so I recommend trying to hide from us while you still can. We will kill you if you give us the chance. You are thus terminated from the Mobian Alliance. Where is Madge?"

Cocoa was, of course, shocked. "Y-you can't…you can't possibly—"

A new voice she didn't recognize threatened her again. "Yes, we can. My name is Colin Kintobor, and I have initiated a war with your precious Kingdom of Pecans—"

"Acorns," Armand interrupted angrily.

"Whatever. Anyways, if you do return, I will make sure you become one of the thousands of casualties of the Great War. Overlanders will remain the ruling class of Mobius, and it is time you people accept that." A grave click echoed along the connection.

Both spies hurriedly put their clothes back on, knowing that this would be the last time they'd see each other. Armand was the first to snap. "I'm leaving."

"No! You…you can't!," Cocoa cried for her new friend.

"Yes, I can, and I must. I'm married, you know."

"Well, so am I, but you could have told me that before you got all emotional with me!"

"Yes," Armand mimicked, "because I don't feel like telling you shit when I feel threatened! Adieu!" He slammed the large wooden door behind him.

A small, dirty squirrel and her payee knocked on the door and asked a shaken Cocoa if they were allowed to use the room. Cocoa ran out and the couple took it as a yes. Cocoa kept running to the streets, trying to find Madge; no luck. She tried to contact Drake; no answer on the telephone. She called Harvey; she didn't leave a message for fear of being caught by her potential attackers. Cocoa was alone for the first time in her spy career. Alone…and scared.

Months later, Cocoa was still hiding at Hôtel Cerise. She had had to be transported by Lady Tranquille (who was, surprisingly, understanding of the situation) for the unexpected and premature birth of the child that had come out of her feeling bad for Armand. The baby was blind in its left eye; to keep herself safe, she put it up for adoption within a month. Somehow, Towers and the U.F. was keeping to its word about not killing her if she didn't leave. Thoughts of the olive branch remarks and of the native still ran through her head at times, but far less frequently now that she was living in a hotel room for free, under Rosie Marshall's name. She hadn't even met the woman, but apparently, she still looked enough like her to pass, even if she had cleaned her fur back to its natural orange hue. She hadn't heard from her husband, Ian St. John, in this entire time frame; she was somewhat worried, but mostly only because of their son, Geoffrey; Cocoa had never really liked Ian that much. On this day, she walked downstairs, when Lady Tranquille stopped her. "You have mail, sweetie!"

Mail? How? She wasn't about to question the woman that was trying her very best to keep her alive, so Cocoa graciously accepted the paper. She read the pale pink envelope, searching for a name or address; both appeared. An alias of Da'Teodor Clament, sent from 207 El Dorado-Mentcat Blvd. Well, that's not hard to figure out at all, Armand. She smiled, thinking of how frantic he was, and opened the envelope in front of Lady Tranquille. Cocoa's smile faded rapidly as she read the note:

"GET OUT OF YOUR REFUGE. U.F. WILL KILL YOU. IAN IS DEAD BY THEIR HAND. I LOVE YOU."

Cocoa gasped and ran back to her room. She couldn't decide whether to be panicked or sad, and the overwhelming gravity of it all made every step harder and harder to make. She quickly unlocked the door to her room and felt it pull all by itself, or at least, she thought it did. A U.F. agent stood on the other side, and as she stepped in, she was kicked to the ground and rendered unconscious.


End file.
